Down on the Corner
by deadlycherry
Summary: Kurt is trying to sell himself on a corner. A strange man picks him. They're both surprised by what happens next.
1. Chapter 1

Watched Pretty Woman this morning and thought of this little gem. One shot for now to get it out of my system, but possibly I'll add some more. Warnings; Language, drugs, prostitution,

Strolling the streets of New York city at age 29 in leather pants and a sheer tank top, Kurt Hummel compared his high school dreams to his current reality. They were pretty different. He had expected to wear some strange and overly sexy outfits in the name of fashion and Broadway, but dressing like a slut so men would pull up to his corner and proposition him?

Nope. Hadn't seen that coming.

It had been a long night with no prospects. A lot of inquiries and cat calls, but nothing solid. It was getting dark, and chilly. It was the end of fall, and though there was no snow yet, the feeling was in the air. Kurt was cold, but resisted wrapping his arms around himself. Had to show off the goods, after all.

He felt a strange tingle when a blue truck pulled up next to him. The driver rolled down the window and just stared at his face for awhile. Even in the fading light, he wore sunglasses. His hair was messy, and his fingers wouldn't stop tapping on the steering wheel. After several long seconds he leaned a little out the window and looked Kurt up and down slowly. Kurt had to bite back his disgust and instead tried to smile. The last thing he wanted was deal with some addict.

"Get in." The driver ordered, and sat back in his seat, fingers still tapping on the steering wheel. Kurt hesitated, but at that moment he felt several raindrops, and hey, he could handle this guy. His knee high boots weren't just for sex appeal. They hid a small gun as well.

The inside of the truck was littered with fast food wrappers and empty bottles, only half of which were soda. The driver didn't look over at him, just pulled away from the curb, and headed down the street.

The truck stalled slightly at the light, but the driver quickly shifted. Kurt stared at him. He was tall - taller than Kurt's 5'10 and then some. His greasy hair was dark and his skin was really, unhealthily pale. He wore an old, battered hooded sweatshirt and baggy, stained jeans. Frankly, he looked like a broad chested Unibomber.

"Where do you want to go?" The driver finally asked him. Kurt gave him directions and they silently moved through the city streets. The only sound was the squeaking of the wipers and the rain on the windows. The strange tingling that Kurt had felt when the truck pulled up had increased tenfold. He discreetly let his hand drift down to his boot and reassured himself about what was in there.

They ended up in an alley Kurt knew well. The driver turned the truck off and sat back in his seat, waiting. Kurt waited, too.

"How much?" The driver asked. Kurt didn't answer him. After about ten seconds, the driver looked over at him. "How much?" He asked again.

"Who are you?" Kurt asked. The driver stared at him. Kurt caught himself and grinned vapidly. "I don't fuck without a name," he explained, making his voice breathless and flirty.

"…Adam." the driver answered after another long look. Damn, Kurt wished he would take off the glasses, but it wasn't necessary. He knew all he needed to know.

"Well, _Adam_. That depends on what you want, exactly."

"What do you do?"

Damn, this guy wasn't making things easy. Kurt took a deep breath and leaned across the trash strewn console. "Why don't you tell me what you want," he breathed in the other man's ear, "And I do it for you?" The other man turned his head so he was also breathing in Kurt's ear.

"Do you accept money in exchange for sex?" He asked. Kurt felt those tingles a hundredfold now and shivered in spite of himself.

"Who are you really?" Kurt asked him again. The two were still in the strangely intimate position.

"Just someone with a little extra cash looking for some fun."

"Bullshit." Kurt took a deep breath. There was a faint trace of deodorant, but mostly a masculine musk that wasn't body odor. There were the tingles again, but with a different edge. He'd always had a thing for GUY guys. A thing that was completely inappropriate right now, given the circumstances. "First of all, if you've ever driven this truck before, I'll eat the steering wheel. You keep stalling at lights and you had to search for the windshield wiper switch. So maybe you stole it except -" He reached down and gingerly picked up one of the balled up wrappers. "It takes weeks if not months to make a truck this filthy, yet there's no odor. Trust me, I know nasty car odors, I've been in enough of them. And the bottles? None of them are the same brand. Unless you or the owner threw a party in the last few hours, this isn't how the truck normally looks. But maybe the owner was up to something, and you stole from him for some quick cash. Except, if you're a drug addict then I'm the damn pope." He turned so he was looking at the other man's face, and saw himself reflected in the lens of the sunglasses. "Your face is pale, and your makeup person does a great job on those sores - they look real, even this close, by the way - but your hands are healthy. No sores or lesions or burns. And frankly, you smell nice. No drug addict smells nice."

The driver didn't say anything or move as Kurt pulled away and adjusted his tank top. Looking out at the rain, which was coming in sheets now, he took and released a deep breath. But when he reached for the door, the other man moved quickly and pulled his hand away, turning him back towards himself.

"Stay here," he ordered.

Kurt sighed. "Okay, maybe you didn't understand. I'm not going to have sex with you. I don't know who you are, but I want nothing to do with it." He pulled his hand away. "You've got that serial killer look about you."

He reached for the truck handle again as the same time the lock clicked. He shook it a couple times but it stayed locked.

Kurt had _really _hoped it wouldn't come to this, but it was why he came prepared. He made a move and pulled the gun out at the same time Adam reached towards his own hip. Cocking it quickly, Kurt aimed it at the other man's shoulder, as Adam

- flashed a familiar black booklet at him. _FBI, _the golden badge read, _Department of Justice. _The card on the other half had a picture, a number and a name, David P. Karofsky.

"Oh you're FUCKING kidding me." Kurt huffed, "Karofsky? Really?" He didn't move the gun.

"Put down the gun." Karofsky ordered him in a calm voice, not questioning how Kurt seemed to know him. Kurt glared for a few minutes, and thought about shooting anyway.

Reholstering the small black handgun, he grabbed a badge of his own and tossed it to Karofsky. He didn't have a fancy booklet like Karofsky, just a blue and gold shield with NYPD and an ID number. Karofksy, never taking his eyes off Kurt, pulled out a cell phone and quickly dialed a number. He asked a series of questions, and Kurt could tell when the other person revealed his name, because a slow grin spread across Karofsky's face and even with the stupid sunglasses still on, Kurt could tell he was gloating.

Karofsky hung up and laughed for a long time while Kurt tried to tell himself that pulling his gun back out was a bad idea. Even if he only hit Karofsky upside the head with it instead of shooting it. Finally Karofsky took off the glasses and wiped at his eyes.

"Wow," he said, "I can't wait to call Z and tell him I picked up a hooker and it turned out to be Princess Hummel."

Kurt's eyes narrowed. "Are you going to tell him you use his name as an alias, too?"

"Fuck yeah, he'll be flattered."

"And I'm _not _a hooker. I'm an undercover detective for the NYPD. I've never had sex for money."

"Yeah, I'll probably just leave that part out." Karofsky laughed again. "Jesus, I thought you were gonna prance around on a stage for the rest of your life. What the hell happened?"

"There's a lot of aspiring performers and very few parts," Kurt said between clenched teeth. He wasn't sure why he was bothering to sit here and explain to his former schoolmate. "How are you in the FBI? "

"What can I say?" Karofsky gave him a cocky grin that was eerily similar to the ones Noah Puckerman used to give. "I'm like a prodigy or something."

"And….you're in New York…why?"

"Drugs. Specifically, kidnappings related to. Why are you a hooker?"

"Murders. Specifically, related to young males."

"Why'd they pick you?"

"I look like the victims."

"Oh," Neither one said anymore. Technically, they'd already revealed too much about their respective cases and the other knew it.

"Well, this has been a delightfully wasted evening, but really, I must be going." Kurt opened the door. He knew for a fact his partner was waiting in a car at the entrance of the alley for him. "Enjoy our beautiful city and go home soon."

As he sashayed (because that was the only way to walk in those particular boots) away, he heard the other man yell out the window, "Nice seeing you again too. Hopefully our next date goes better!" Kurt paused, narrowed his eyes and thought about pulling his gun out. A set of headlights coming on at the entrance of the alley reminded him of witnesses and he started walking again.

The next morning, Kurt put his coat and satchel in his department issued locker and sat down next to his partner to wait for his daily meeting to begin.

Sipping his coffee, he nearly choked when his boss, Dave Karofsky and a Spanish woman entered the room. Karofsky saw him staring and winked.

Nope. This was not going to be good.


	2. Chapter 2

**It was only supposed to be a one shot! But here we are, because it WOULD. NOT. GO. AWAY. Blame my addiction on the Law and Orders, the CSIs, the Closer, and Reno 911. The information may be misleading, as those shows - and Wikipedia - are my reference points. **

**Also - I'm working on a time consuming but epic (as in long) fic right now that is my priority. So I can't promise how often I'll update this particular one. It could be weeks. Please don't let that stop you from reviewing, because like everyone else, if I have reviews to look forward to I'm much more likely to keep writing. Also, can anyone tell me the etiquette about reviews? Am I supposed to message everyone that reviews? To anyone that reviewed before, I'm sorry if I'm supposed to but haven't. I've been out of the game for a LONG time. If someone could clear that up for me, I'd be eternally grateful. **

**WARNINGS; What don't we have? Graphic imagery, ideas, drug use, prostitution, kidnappings, gratuitous stereotypes, and hot guys in uniform. I own none of it, I just rearranged it for my own (and hopefully, your) personal pleasure. **

Kurt hung up his peacoat and scarf in his beaten up locker, checking his reflection one last time in the small mirror. All traces of the previous night's eyeliner and lip gloss had been scrubbed off and the copious amounts of gel he'd used to get his hair to spike had swirled down the shower drain. Gone were the slutty clothes, replaced with his uniform of black khakis and a short sleeved blue button down. Complete with shiny badge.

Pleased, he shut the door and replaced the padlock, then turned to Lance Gulino, his generic Brooklyn stereotype of a partner that was holding his coffee. Together, they went into the conference room for their daily meeting with the rest of their squad. They were several minutes early and Kurt felt himself relax into the familiarity of chatter with his co-workers.

It had been a toss-and-turn kind of night. Kurt's life now was far removed from his teenage years. He was still fundamentally the same: He loved musicals and went to one on Broadway at least once a year. He loved fashion, despite the fact he wore a uniform every day, and was addicted to magazines and trashy reality shows. He didn't hide who he was and he still could still come out with a pithy remark and shut someone down faster than most people could blink.

But everyone changes as they get older and Kurt was no exception. The reality of the world hit him in college - there was a lot of talent out there, a lot of ambition and fierceness, but still not a lot of openings. Frankly, being a performer relied more on luck than anything and even if you got the parts life wasn't easy. And, while some artists thrived on those years of scraping by and sacrificing, Kurt simply wasn't one of them. He still wasn't one hundred percent sure why he became a _cop _exactly, but it worked for him. He was good at it, anyway. His eye for fashionable details translated into crime scene details, and his performing abilities made him one hell of a force in interrogations. Years of dancing workouts made keeping up with physical requirements a breeze, and instead of being - ahem _softer _- like so many of his classmates at his recent ten year reunion, he was still in excellent physical shape. The added benefit of helping people didn't hurt either.

Things had changed so much that sometimes Kurt barely remembered high school. The only one - other than Finn, of course - that he kept in contact with was Rachel (who handled the tough years much better than Kurt and was now living every page of her dream journal. Whenever Kurt got lonely for that world, all he had to was call her, and spend a few days backstage.) Even the ten year reunion a year ago, with all its usual promises to keep in touch, had ended with a handful of Facebook requests. As a result, he didn't think much about where people ended up. And he hadn't thought of Dave Karofsky in….years.

Having the former football player appear not only in his city, but to be picked up by him as a hooker…. Kurt couldn't pick between anger or humiliation. So he spend a sleepless night going back and forth.

However, despite little sleep and annoyingly erotic dreams that had them both pulling out something other than their badges, he woke up in a better mood. A mood that was crushed when he realized Dave Karofsky was strolling into the room like he owned the place, coming in between a dark haired women and Lieutenant Quinn.

Kurt choked on his latte. Karofsky winked at him, and the roomful of detectives immediately noticed, discreetly glancing at Kurt. He tried to keep his face expressionless, but a snort from his partner attested to his failure.

"All right, let's start." The lieutenant, a short and stocky Irish man with a family history spanning several generations with the NYPD, was not one for pleasantries. "Last nights undercover operation wasn't a complete loss." Again the room glanced at Kurt, again he tried to remain unaffected, and again Lance snorted. "It has come to the attention of us and the FBI that one of our cases is closely linked with theirs. This is Agent Karofosky and Agent Rodriguez, I'll let them brief you with their findings."

Karofsky held up a pile of folders and set them on the table for the detectives to pass around amongst themselves. "A few years ago we started investigating some missing person cases from around the country. The victims were all Caucasian males, between five seven and six feet tall, brown hair, blue eyes, and thin. All in their early and mid twenties." Behind him, Agent Rodriguez was clipping six photos to the case board. The similarities between the victims were immediately apparent. All six had the same (slightly effeminate) boy next door look about them.

They all looked like they could be related to Kurt. And they were all familiar.

Karofsky continued. "All the victims disappeared over the course of the past two years, following a pattern of several weeks of strange behavior that we've identified as symptoms of methamphetamine addiction."

Kurt nodded to himself, as did most of the other detectives. Their victims had also had meth in their systems.

"The victims disappeared with no signs of struggle, and few, if any, personal items were missing. The last victim was the only one who took their cell phone. Eddie DuLong, from Arnold, Missouri. We found the phone abandoned on the side of the road. It was a flip phone, with a note on the back of a receipt. It was tucked inside. It gave us our first big break."

Kurt and the other detectives flipped through their folders until they came across a picture of said evidence. The paper had been through the elements, as had the phone, Karofsky explained at the front of the room, but they'd used their forensic magic to decipher the words.

"_NYC. Help me."_

Karofsky continued with the briefing. "We immediately focused our efforts in the city, and we've discovered that at least four of the six victims - including Dulong - were pushing meth and other narcotics throughout the city. We've been working with the Narcotics unit investigating the drug angle, but not having much luck. We believe that the same person contacted each of them, got them hooked on the drug, and then either coerced or forced them into coming here. " He looked at the group. "We're hoping you have more information about what happened after that."

The Lieutenant cleared his throat and took over. "All six victims were found in the same alley, apparently dead of overdoses. All had signs of methamphetamine usage, which tox screens confirmed. Initially, it was just another group of junkies taking it too far, but as the victims appearance and locations were similar, we looked deeper. All the victims were prostitutes; all were using the same fake name. Until now, we believed all six were from New York City or the surrounding area. We've been working the hooker angle, Detective Hummel bears a striking resemblance to the vics. He's been undercover on the street, speaking to other prostitutes in the area and the johns as well." He nodded at Kurt, who took over.

"The ones on the street that had minimal contact with the victims actually thought they were the same person, Matthew Cashburn. Two dyed their hair to match the shade of brown the others had. One gave an address to an arresting officer that turned out to be an abandoned lot. We've searched every inch of it, and come up with nothing. According to johns that have - " Kurt paused and took a quick breath "- picked _me_ up thinking I was one of the victims, they often sold drugs as well as sex. Mainly meth, but allegedly heroin and coke as well. Two other prostitutes claim one of the victims…" He glanced at the board in the front "…we've been going by their fake names and order of death. We'll have to do DNA matches….Matthew 5, we've been calling him. The other prostitutes claim that Matthew 5 paid them to go with him into an old factory where a meth lab was set up. They helped him produce a batch and were supposed to help him pack it into a van when another man showed up, screaming at 5 and hitting him. The two guys ran off and we found 5's body two days later."

Kurt continued with what they'd learned, which wasn't much. It was mostly just confirming that the victims had someone acting as a puppet master in the city, using the drug to control them until they were too addicted to be useful anymore and killing them.

Questions back and forth between the New York detectives and the FBI agents filled in more gaps, but ultimately, they were no closer to the crime being solved. Even though he was focused on the task at hand, Kurt's stomach was slowly turning. He had a sick feeling that he knew how this meeting was going to wrap up, and he snuck a glance at Karofsky. The agent was staring at Eve Lauber as she ran through what they'd found at the factory where the supposed meth lab had been. It was hard to identify him as the awkward, self conscious teenager he'd been when he was standing in front of the room. The leftover baby fat had receded, leaving his cheeks and jaw more defined and covered with a days worth of stubble. His eyes were still that strange honey-green color, only less guarded and more intense. He didn't wear a uniform, just a boring, greige button down and striped tie. There were lines on his forehead and near his eyes that hadn't been there before.

The man was beautiful to look at. There was no getting around it. And Kurt would vehemently deny it to anyone who asked, but had to admit to himself that when Karofsky was taking charge of a room, he was nothing but manly swagger and power. And that was kind of Kurt's….thing.

As the meeting came to an end, the Lieutenant made the announcement that Kurt was already expecting. "All right, Hummel, Gulino, you've been at the head of this, work with Rodriguez and Karofsky here and figure out a new game plan. Everyone else, go through both files again. Go back to the sites for new information. Let's get this guy." He dismissed them and they filed out in small groups, chatting amongst themselves. Soon only the four of them were left.

"I'm Lance," Kurt's partner got up and headed towards the latina woman and held out his hand. She looked at him apprehensively and shook it lightly.

"Shauna."

That was all Gulino needed. Even seeing it as often as he had, Kurt was always amazed at his partner's ability to dazzle and charm women. If they didn't hop into bed together before this was all over, Kurt would be stunned. Already Shauna's earlier apprehension was slowly melting, and she was dangerously close to smiling as Gulino asked her what she liked about the city so far.

Kurt wasn't distracted enough by the two of them to miss the bulk that was Karofsky parking himself in the chair next to him. He slowly turned his head until he was staring at the other man, and instantly the urge to smack him returned. Gone was the man in charge, and left in his place was an irritating cockiness.

"You don't wear your outfits to work?" Karofsky asked him.

Kurt didn't bother retorting back, although he had one about the academy accepting special needs students if he needed it. Karofsky looked disappointed and shook his head.

"How do you want to do this?" Kurt said instead, gesturing at the files and trying for a semblance of professionalism. The look on Karofsky's face made him instantly regret his choice of words, but to the man's credit he only called Rodriguez and Gulino over so they could begin. Oddly, Kurt felt a little let down, and then mad at himself for feeling a little let down.

This was going to be hard enough as it was. He didn't need Karofsky flirting with him, too.

**There we go. Kind of a boring, no action chapter, I know, but I had to explain all that stuff to get the story moving along. And now I have to go back to working on my REAL story. Good night, all.**


End file.
